


Metallic

by TintinnabulousRunes



Series: Panem Forever [7]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, POV First Person, The Rebellion Failed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-13 02:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9101374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TintinnabulousRunes/pseuds/TintinnabulousRunes
Summary: Nights are long in the Capitol when the Hunger Games are on. Mentoring for his second year, Midas Raptor knows many kinds of long nights and puts on a different face for each of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**The 89th Hunger Games**

**Day 10**

**Midas Raptor**  
**District 1**  
**Victor of the 86th Hunger Games, Mentor of Shimmer Goldsmith**

Being gold all the time is exhausting. But that's what they expect in the Capitol. They want all charming and demure but seductive yet hard-to-get. Above all, they don't want it to come off as fake and there are those who have called me false in the past so I have to be careful. They want to think I actually care about them, that I'm interested in their political maneuvering and parties, and not interested in digging out their eyes with a soup spoon. Though a melon baller would be a better choice for that task.

At least my fellow Victors are more tolerable. They get bronze; still bright, charming, but I can have an edge at least. They acknowledge the murder my hands have wrought unlike the Capitol citizens who so want to ignore the fact their lovers are killers as well.

Some Victors even get to see me as steel, the way I'm supposed to be; refined and efficient and positively deadly. I don't have to fake emotions when I'm steel. There is no pondering what the right face to present is. If I'm happy, I'm happy. If I'm sad, I'm sad. There's no smiling with a broken arm as steel. 

Lynn likes me best when I'm steel. When we're down in the training room trying our best to hurt each other without leaving marks. I have a sabre and she has a trident and we are in our elements. We can be careers again, if only for an hour or two. She understands the need to hurt something in a way even Basalt does not. She is the most kindred spirit I've ever met, save for my brother.

Right now I'm all gold even though my audience is passed out. I pull on my shirt. Ugh, he popped some stitches on the hem taking it off. This is my favorite shirt, it brings out the blue in my eyes. Orange is a great color on me but it is so hard to find the right hue in the right cut so it doesn't clash with my skin tone or hair.

Next to me, Maximus Brightriver begins to shake, still lying down. Does he get seizures?

Oh, that's not a seizure. He's vomited and has begun to choke. He'll aspirate it if I don't do anything. I turn him to his side to give myself a few moments to think.

Currently, I'm sore in all the wrong ways and my favorite shirt needs to be re-hemmed. My scalp is especially sore. I hate it when people pull on my hair. This is the third envelope with Brightriver's name on it I've gotten and the third time he's pulled my hair.

How good is the determination of the time of death? It's not like Brightriver has a tracker, so his vitals aren't monitored. I'm five minutes overtime, plausible deniability. Plus, I won't actually be doing the killing, so there won't be blade marks or bruises. I didn't even supply him with the vodka or poppy. In the arena this would count as a natural death. By non-arena standards, at worst, I failed to assist him or alert a doctor. If that can even be proven.

I stand up and Brightriver rolls back onto his back. I did warn him about mixing poppy and vodka.

After a second, he starts choking again. He splutters and shakes as his body tries to save him. With each lungful of desperate air, all he really does is suck in more bile and partially digested food.

I straighten my collar and smooth out a couple of wrinkles. Nothing I can do about the hem at the moment. I walk over to the door and pause. Looking back at Brightriver, I can't help but relish the look of his lips just starting to turn blue. The poppy and vodka keep him asleep as his body spasms and starts to die around him.

At the moment, I find myself missing the arena, longing for a triumphant cannon shot to signal this kill. But I am not in the arena and should not linger too long here.

A car waits outside for me. I slide in. Lynn is seated opposite me, dozing lightly. She cracks an eye open and grunts in acknowledgment and mutters, "You're late. Pack is still sleeping. Wanna go to the Jabber Jay?"

"Sure." I slide my shoes off and put my feet up next to Lynn. "Should be the last ones for the year. There's normally no more buyers after Day 10."

Lynn kicks off her own shoes and puts her feet up next to me. She fully opens her eyes and cocks her head to the side. "Why? Have they wasted all their money on drugs and sponsoring the ones they fancy this year?"

I never actually bothered asking the why. All I paid attention to was Dawn telling me it gets better after Day 10, and was happy when that proved true last year.

"Well," I shrug, "that or the Capitol actually needs us mentoring when the pack starts to fragment."

Lynn snorts. "Bet I messed that up."

I make a show of rolling my eyes at her. She is ever so proud of her betrayal of the pack. The fact it worked gives her to right to be so I will not hold her pride against her. I can drop the gold now, at least. She sticks her tongue out at me and we say nothing more as the car takes us to the Jabber Jay.

The neon lights of the club sector fade and are replaced by the more sedate tones of the coffee shops and wine bars that dot the area. I should paint the transition; danger to safety, chaos and violence to order and peace.

The motion and sound of Lynn fidgeting with her gloves districts me. She undoes and redoes the snaps of the fingerless black leather gloves she wears. Given the heavy scaring she has on her right hand, she always wears gloves in public, not by choice of course. I just wish she would stop playing with the snaps because the sound is really getting on my nerves. She doesn't even do it with any kind of pattern, just a staccato of clicking and snapping.

She fidgets with everything, though. It is a compulsion, obviously, so it does seem a bit much to ask her to stop just for my sake. I know she doesn't do it to annoy me. Though, if she finds out it does annoy me, she'll do it on purpose. That is simply her nature. And she calls me immature.

The car turns down a narrow side street. It parks below the hand painted wooden sign of a Jabber Jay with the name below done in silver leaf. The lights within are dim and if I did not know better, I would assume the bar is closed.

Lynn refastens her gloves and slides her shoes back on. She steps out of the car. I slide my shoes back on as well and follow suit.

Striding into the Jabber Jay, Lynn has come into her element. The interior is dimly lit and eerily silent, given all the sound proofing. Lynn's nervous fidgeting has been replaced by an easy confidence and grace. I am not so much in my element and make due with mimicking Lynn's style of bronze.

She leans over the bar and orders, "Absinthe, from the back shelf."

This is what she lives for; the subterfuge and code and being too clever for your own good.

The bartender signals to one of the wait staff and we are guided through the now familiar hidden door and down the back hallway. The staff member leaves us in the back suit. There's a large shower, a couple of cots, and a closet we've taken to storing spare changes of clothes in over the past few days. The back area was originally part the live in apartment for the bar's owner. Now, it is used as an overnight for the staff, and wayward Victors.

How Lynn knows of this place, she has yet to tell me. This is her first year mentoring in the Capitol but she has made it clear she has gotten connections already.

Lynn has already pulled off her gloves and scrubbed most of the makeup off her face in what must be record time. She contorts herself in an effort to remove her dress, unable to easily reach the zipper. I know by now not to offer help.

I take my shirt off carefully to avoid further popping the stitches. My efforts are in vain. I complain loudly, because it's my favorite shirt and this is justified.

"Lynn, my shirt's ruined." I show her the completely destroyed hem. "See?"

She laughs. The nerve of her.

"Buy a new one. I saw you eyeing that sleeveless, gold trimmed one at the Pillar Square Boutique yesterday. Just get that one."

"No! I like this one." I pause, because I think of the top she mentioned. It was a very nice top. I should buy it. "Okay, maybe I will get that one, but that's beside the point."

Lynn laughs at me again.

She doesn't understand fashion. She has a great stylist and Agrippa's talents are wasted on her as far as I'm concerned. She just doesn't get it. Any form of the arts is lost on her, with maybe the exception of the embroidery she does, but even then she does not view it as art.

Somehow Lynn got out of her dress while I was distracted and has hopped into the shower. She better not use all the hot water this time. She just left her dress on the floor. Agrippa's talent continues to be wasted on her.

Unlike Lynn, I care about my clothes, and fold them up after taking them off. I go place them on the cot so I can get them before we leave. My shirt may be salvageable. I paid good money for some of these pieces since the Center wardrobe is so limited.

I grab Lynn's dress as well because even if she doesn't care, I do. I smooth out some of the worst of the wrinkles and lay it across the bed. As for her undergarments, I leave where they are. She can deal with those.

I return to the shower only to be met with a face full of water. Lynn lowers the shower head and goes back to rinsing her hair. "Thought you might want to start getting the gel out."

"I do not use hair gel. Unlike you I don't have to plaster my hair to make it look presentable."

Lynn sprays me again.

"Ouch, Raptor. That one hurt." She replies in a deadpan.

She says I'm the immature one. Wrong. At least she's not whiny and melancholy today. She gets so overly dramatic sometimes. It gets tiring, honestly. Even if that's the way she feels, the least she should control the presentation. I suppose she does that around Capitol citizens and it's just everyone else that deals with her whining. 

The lights get brighter. Something is wrong. I can't pin point what, but something is suddenly very wrong. The air is stifling hot. My limbs feel weak.

I need to sit down somewhere. I try to pin down the source of the wrongness but my mind scrambles uselessly for words that should be obvious.

"Midas?" Lynn's voice is muffled and mixes with the sounds of water.

* * *

Fuzzy and warm and soft.

Blanket.

How did I get from showering to having a blanket wrapped around me?

"You back yet?" Lynn asks.

I look up. Since at one point I went from standing to sitting, apparently. Lynn sits across from me. She didn't bother to get dressed, so it can't have been that long. How much time did I lose?

"You had a seizure." Lynn says. "Forty-three seconds this time."

Right. Seizure. I get those. Heatstroke and stress exacerbating an underlying condition. Catatonia.

I sit up straighter. My head swims and I regret the action. Lynn stands and walks out of view. I can hear the clink of glass. I cradle my head in my hands and focus on not throwing up. The room swims and my head swims and I'm not entirely certain of where I am. Lynn being around tells me I'm in the Capitol.

Lynn reappears and offers me a glass of water and two small yellow pills. I take them without question. Some people, I'd hesitate with. But Lynn didn't poison her allies, she set them on fire or stabbed them, so I figure she won't poison me.

My stomach lurches at the introduction of liquid. I half reconsider the possibility of Lynn poisoning me. But we're in the Capitol, not in the arena, so she has no motivation to do so.

"Midas." Lynn get my attention. "Do the follow my finger thing."

"I don't have a concussion. It was a seizure." I point out.

"Will it distract you enough so you don't puke?"

She has a point. Even being annoyed with her distracts me from my nausea. "Okay, fine."

Lynn holds up her right hand and I follow her index finger side to side and up and down.

"Did someone maybe slip you something?" She asks, revealing the real motivation behind wanting to have me track her movement.

"No. Just had two drinks, kept my hand over the glass the whole time." My reply is perhaps a bit too terse.

Lynn somehow has a better eye for people slipping things into drinks that I do and had to help me out three nights back. Maybe with how much of a backstabber she is herself, she can spot that kind of behavior more easily than I can. Her concern is appreciated yet still irritating. As far as being Victors is concerned, I'm her senior. She is a year old than me, however, and regards that difference with more weight in the dynamics of our relationship.

Lynn lowers her hand. "I'm just checking."

She stands and offers her hand. I accept it and she pulls me to my feet. The world only lurches a little bit. The pills she gave me must have started to kick in. I shrug off the blanket and shuffle over to the shower. The water is still warm at least.

The warm water soothes away the aches and pains I unfortunately remember the cause of. The night crawls back to me and I wish I could beat it back with a club. Though I remember the satisfying resolution, which does make things more bearable. Revenge like that I have to savor. I may never get the opportunity again.

"Feeling better?" Lynn asks from the other side of the room.

She's thrown the blanket back over the cot and gone over the closet. She rummages through her haphazardly packed shelf. With her back to me, I can see what looks very much like a bite mark on her left shoulder.

"Lynn, your shoulder. Are you alright?"

The muscles of her back ripple as she stiffens. "It's nothing. I'll get the medics to check it out back in the Center."

The wound oozes blood at the movement. Now it's my turn to be the concerned one. Lynn does not respond well to pity. I make myself sound annoyed instead. "At least let me bandage it."

A growl rumbles from Lynn's throat, a low sound that does not fit her body. I've learned that even on good days, Lynn is not big on physical contact, except when it is strictly on her terms. There's no casual contact with her. On bad days, no one is allowed to touch her. Today is a very understandably bad day. 

"Fine," there's a snarl in her voice, "can't reach it myself anyways." 

There is a small first aid kit in one of the cabinets under the sink. I pull out a gauze square, a tube of antibiotic cream, and an alcohol wipe. Lynn has moved over to the cot, precariously perched to not disturb the clothes I've folded there. Oddly considerate of her.

I move aside my shirt and pants and sit next to her. Her scarred right hand has curled into a claw, stuck between being open and a fist.

Stops to medical are never pleasant because you wind up thinking about why you got the particular wound. I also know the medics will give Lynn a lecture about not at least bandaging the wound before going to see them, so I will spare her from that experience. I did not deserve the lecture because I was right outside the Center when I cut my foot on that piece of glass, but that's beside the point at the moment.

I rip open the alcohol wipe's packaging and warn, "This'll sting."

The wound is definitely a bite mark, bruised around the edges from the force. There are more bruises on Lynn's shoulders and more will no doubt come up later. Some of the other bruises contain teeth marks but none of the others broke the skin. With the growing collection of bruises on my hips, I can sympathize.

Lynn's back twitches as I wipe away the blood. I make a point to not actually touch her with my bare skin, keeping the fabric of the wipe between us. It's the least I can do. The bite wound is ragged around the edges and I have to stop so I don't do anymore damage. I don't know if it will need stitches or something like that.

I open up the gauze and squeeze the antibiotic cream directly onto it. Applying the cream directly to the wound is best, but with Lynn hating physical contact, this is the next best thing. Lining up the gauze with the bite mark, I try not to press harder than necessary to get the adhesive to stick.

"Why does getting patched up always hurt more than the wound in the first place?" Lynn hisses through clenched teeth. "This hurts more than being stabbed." 

Her expression is causing the concealer on her cheek to crack. I point it out and her expression goes to the angriest blank look possible. All she can do is furrow her brows while keeping her cheeks slack.

Does having a throwing knife embedded in your arm count as a stab wound? Pretty close, I guess. She also did get actually stabbed in the face and hand. Lynn is overly familiar with the sensation of being stabbed.

"You won't bleed all over your sweater now." I say, then consider the hideous pink sweater in question and add, "Though, if you did, I'd get to throw it out, so I don't know why I'm doing this for you."

Lynn snorts at me, which passes as a laugh for her when she's in a mood. "Finish showering and get dressed. If we ask nice, Vincent will make us hot chocolate with Amaretto in it."

"Chocolate _and_ booze? Sign me up." I reply, not bothering to hide my eagerness at that suggestion.

Normally, I'm one for long showers, but hot chocolate with Amaretto in it sounds far more appealing at the moment. I card my fingers through my hair to get out the few tangles. I turn off the shower and Lynn tosses me a towel. There isn't a static dryer installed down here so I actually have to towel dry my hair. It's barbaric.

Lynn tugs on her hideous, but admittedly soft and comfortable, pink sweater. I tried it on to prove that I look good in anything. And I do. I still want to burn that damn sweater.

I grab a set of my own clothes from the closet. I keep outfits folded up together. It makes things easier. This set is a pair of cream pants and a light blue shirt. Plain by my standards, but comfortable. And next to Lynn's sweater, I'll look amazing. Next to Lynn in general, I look amazing.

We're going to be around people again. Bronze might pass around the gamblers. But there will be some Gamemaker interns as well. Gold is still my best mode of operation for this. I offer Lynn my arm and ask, "Want to give the tabloids something to talk about?"

"Of course." She answers and loops her arm through mine. "I'll even let you have the first interviews."


	2. Chapter 2

**Day 16**

**Midas Raptor**  
**District 1**  
**Victor of the 86th Hunger Games, Mentor of Shimmer Goldsmith**

What first year intern came up with the idea of making the arena a wrecking yard? And an even better question, why did Pricilla Wolfshiem go along with it? It's an absolute mess of rusted out cars and dust.

I had to get Shimmer a tetanus shot. 650 solidi of sponsorship money gone, because there's piles of sharp, rusted metal everywhere. I could have gotten him a better weapon, let him show his skills and put on a show. But no. I'm spending that money on a tetanus shot.

The arena is dry, for one thing, in contrast with the past two arenas full of standing water. Even my arena had the oasis and there were fountains in the garden the year before that. The lack of standing water makes moving around the arena far easier, save for the dust storms that grind progress to a halt. 

There is rain that falls sometimes, when the Gamemakers feel like it, but the midday sun heats the rusted metal and all of it evaporates away just as quickly as it appeared. I keep finding myself clutching my thermos as I watch the dehydration set in for the seven tributes left in the arena. I know that feeling well. Thick tongued and faint and confused and desperate. Urine coming out brown. Silently begging for a silver parachute with just a sip of water in it.

I crunch another caffeine pill between my back molars and let the bitter taste wake me up as much as the chemical effect will begin to later. The caffeine pills work fine, but I know Dawn keeps stronger stimulants under the sink in her suite. I am nearing the 48 hour mark and would really like something more than just caffeine keeping me up. Unfortunately, I can't think of a good enough excuse to go to the suite right now.

Need to stay focused. With minimal chemical aid.

The pack is about to fracture. We are already down to five, after Feldspar's girl died in the mutt attack yesterday. Resources are running low. All the fresh food has been eaten, leaving a few scant cans remaining.

The only other tributes remaining are the 6 girl and 8 boy, neither of whom are particularly strong threats. They cannot be discounted entirely but the pack is safe to split as it ever is.

The current fracture line is not favorable, however. Basalt's boy, Marcus, looks like he is going to side with District 4 in the split. Helen had tried out her charms on him and it did not go over well. He nearly broke her wrist. I'm glad he didn't. But honestly, he probably should have, because I know he lost some sponsors for being half-assed.

Shimmer became leader of the pack by the default due to no one else wanting that target on their back. Shimmer stands up, hand resting on the pommel of his knife. More reasons for Marcus to go with District 4 in the split.

The main feed and focus feed are showing identical shots of Shimmer standing boldly before the Cornucopia. This whole scene has "this is going to end badly" written all over it. The Capitol audience must be loving this. The sponsorships are not reflecting this. If there's money coming in, it's going to, well, _not_ Shimmer.

"How about a melee?" Shimmer's voice comes over my headset like I am standing there with him, "It's time things play out properly for once."

He says that last part while looking at Lynn's girl, the comment clearly directed at her mentor. Lynn is seated at the console to my right. A smirk caused by more than just that scar on her face plays across her lips. She likes it when people point out how she had no honor.

Marcus stands, towering a head taller than Shimmer. But he's been favoring his right leg after that mutt attack yesterday. No bleeding so something is pulled or sprained. I haven't gotten a good enough look at Basalt's console to try and check the vital readout.

"There's still two others left. Until they're dead, it isn't a proper melee." Marcus points out.

The line is pedantic. But I question if the distinction is because of actually wanting to honor what the melee is, or because he does not want to fight. Knowing Basalt, and therefore the kind of tribute he would pick, it is actually because Marcus wants to honor the melee.

Beginning to draw a line in the dirt with the toe of his boot, Shimmer announces, "Looks like I have a challenger."

Well, there will be a melee now. No one can turn down something like that and hope to get a single nummus of sponsorship money after. Marcus readjusts his grip on his tire iron. His eyes flick to various attack angles.

The only way Shimmer is getting out of this alive is if he has some sort of trick up his sleeve from his training that the Academy failed to inform me about. I suppose I'll be mentoring Helen shortly.

I understand arrogance. Really, I do. It's hard to be humble when you literally are the best person in the room. But Shimmer is not the best fighter in the arena, not in close quarters against Marcus. Certainly not when Shimmer only has a buck knife while Marcus has a tire iron that gives him another six inches of reach in addition to his longer arms. 

The other three members of the pack all look at each other before forming a ring around Shimmer and Marcus, blocking all the easy exits. The gilded Cornucopia glints behind them, the only bright metal in a sea of rust. I think this is what I'll paint this year. This shot. The contrast of metals and tributes.

Shimmer moves first, drawing his buck knife and going in from a gutting strike, based on the angle of the blade. At the last moment he feints. His target changes high to Marcus' armpit, going for one of the subclavian vessels. Marcus pivots and brings his tire iron in a sweeping arc that catches Shimmer's hip.

The alarms of Shimmer's vital signs begin to blare at me with renewed vigor. Increased heart rate, increased adrenaline levels. I mute the alarms but keep an eye on the numbers. There is a good chance his hip has been fractured, but I will not be able to tell for a while until his white blood cell count increases or remains the same.

Shimmer tries to get close enough for a strike of his own, but can't. He is off balance. His hip is hurting him to the point where he is letting it show. Though he never did score high on the hiding pain portions of his acting courses. He makes a grab for the tire iron.

Oh, that... That just looks sad. At this point being his mentor is just an embarrassment.

Marcus lunges, aiming high. Going for a blow to the temple? At least it will be quick.

Shimmer ducks and makes a lunge of his own. He tackles Marcus and actually takes him to the ground as Marcus' left leg gives way. Taking several blows from the tire iron across the back, Shimmer straddles Marcus and drives the buck knife repeatedly into Marcus' torso and neck. Marcus struggles, trying to strike Shimmer or buck him off. Shimmer just shrugs off the rapidly weakening blows.

Shimmer keeps stabbing until the cannon shot fires. Oh, I do love the sound of cannon shots. They are a lovely reminder of the fact I'm still alive. It does feel good to outlast people even if I'm no longer one of the ones in the arena. Life is a game and birthdays are just keeping score.

Blood staining his sun-pinked skin and plastering his blond hair to his scalp, Shimmer rises to his feet, grabbing the tire iron. That was rather redeeming. His sponsorship total reflects that nicely.

Limping slightly, Shimmer backs up until he is part of the circle of other careers. They all move apart to give the hovercraft room to come and get Marcus' body.

There is hardly a minute's delay before the hovercraft appears in the air, claw arm lowering to pick up Marcus' body. The corpse is hoisted into the belly of the hovercraft. Once the doors close, Basalt and Feldspar stand and silently leave the room. District 2 is out of the running early this year. Not even one in the final four, tsk tsk.

The remaining careers all stare at each other. Shimmer's chest heaves. He is running on an adrenaline high and all I can do is hope his discipline from training prevents him from doing anything else stupid. He got lucky to get out of that fight with Marcus. Even then, there are welts rising across his flesh, visible on his arms and back through the holes in his shirt. The tire iron is held in a white knuckled grip. His fingers are going to seize up if he maintains that tight a grip for too much longer. 

Emily's boy, Peter, steps forward and draws a line in the dirt with the toe of his boot. His gaze flicks between Shimmer and Helen. His eyes linger on Shimmer and he sneers, a silent provocation.

I bite back the urge to shout at Shimmer to not take the bait from the fisherman's son. Shimmer cannot hear me and I need to appear in control, even if I'm not feeling in control because I'm not in control. He is still alive, he still has a chance. But the odds are not in his favor. 

"Eyes over here, handsome." Helen purrs and steps forward to accept the challenge.

Her charms have worked on Peter. She moves with careful precision. Shoulders thrown back to emphasize the curve of her chest and to distract from the ugly peeling patch of sunburn on her left arm. A toss of her brunette ponytail districts Peter and gets her hair out of the way. I'm still of the opinion she should have cut it, at least while in the arena. Ponytails are just pretty head handles as far as I'm concerned.

Both are armed with knives. Helen has her larger knife in hand and a smaller knife tucked into her boot. Peter has a knife in his offhand and has also fashioned himself a crude set of knuckles out of some rusted scrap wrapped in cloth.

Lynn's girl, Lauren, circles around behind Helen, blocking her exit. But Lauren's eyes are not on the combatants. Her eyes are trained on Shimmer. She put herself closer to him by moving behind Helen.

Will Lynn's girl have any honor to her?

I filter out the beginning dance of the fight between Peter and Helen and focus entirely on Shimmer. He is still my tribute, however little faith I have in him. The sponsorship total at the corner of my screen is grey. A lockout. I cannot send him anything. Even if I could, the distraction could prove fatal, with Lauren eyeing him.

Despite the lockout, I pull up the sponsorship gifts and prep a small care package. Salve for the welts and the smallest bottle of water they have. It is all I can afford to send him without dipping into the District funds and that would require a debate with Dawn which I don't feel like having. My attention is divided between watching more sponsorship money trickle in and noting each tense of Lauren's muscles.

I would almost rather she attack now while Shimmer still is riding the adrenaline high. He needs to have himself hidden away for when the crash hits him. He'll be rendered useless once that happens.

Is Lauren hedging her attack on the crash? I tear my eyes away from the screen to look at Lynn. There is no easily reading the expression on her face. She stares intently at her console. Brows knit, mouth set in a hard line. Just concentration on the surface. Her right hand is curled into a claw. That means she is tense. Is she nervous or is her hand just acting up on her at an inopportune time?

Her jaw works. She'd chewing the inside of her cheek. She'd nervous. Again, I'm not sure of the cause. Does she not know what Lauren is planning on doing or does she know and is not confident if it will work?

The sounds within the arena come through my headset. There is a scream of pain. Lower pitched. From Peter, then. I turn my focus to the ongoing fight. Blood streams down Peter's face from a long gash on his forehead.

Lauren has already crossed half the distance between her and Shimmer by the time the cameras catch her movement and the new image appears on my screen. Shimmer's reaction is quicker, still tinged with adrenaline. He steps back and catches her arm, stopping her knife inches away from his neck. He shoves her and she stumbles back, knocking into Helen.

So much for a melee. This has turned into a brawl.

Helen spins, throwing an elbow at Lauren. Peter scrambles back from the new fight, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes. Shimmer runs. This has been the smartest thing he has done all day.

The consoles all begin to separate, gliding on tracks set beneath the floor. Visors rise on the sides to prevent anyone from seeing each other's screens. There are no more alliances left. Tributes and mentors alike are all on their own for now.

I grab another caffeine pill from the tin at my console and let it dissolve on my tongue. I plan on staying awake as long as Shimmer still breaths. I put on my brightest golden smile and start searching through my sponsor contacts. Fourteen more solidi and I can send Shimmer a larger bottle of water. He deserves it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Day 18**

**Midas Raptor**  
**District 1**  
**Victor of the 86th Hunger Games, Mentor of** ~~Shimmer Goldsmith~~ **Helen Arizonus**

Using her teeth, Helen tears a strip of fabric from the hem of her shirt. The move adds a few argentae to her sponsor total. Not that it matters much at this point.

Helen winds the strip of fabric around the shard of glass she has embedded in a makeshift handle of wood. The glass will make a fine blade for the shank. Once the blade has been secured to the handle to her satisfaction, Helen slips the shank into the sheath at her waist where her larger knife used to rest. 

Three tributes are left and there are six of us that remain in the Center's mentor room. We are all spaced apart, each District having taken over a whole row of consoles. The screen in front of Dawn has the focus feed on Helen pulled up, I have the main feed pulled up, the console to my left has the District 4 focus feed on it, and the one to Dawn's right has the District 6 focus feed on it. Seeing what the Gamemakers having the cameras look at can something gives hints to what they're planning.

Helen being a member of the final three does not surprise me. The two with her are a bit more surprising.

Lauren Rio is still alive. It is largely through luck but I cannot deny that Lynn does have skill as a mentor. She has rapidly cultivated an interesting group of core sponsors, primarily gamblers who do not mind adding a bit more money with each kill or advancement to the next bracket because they're making back at least triple of whatever they spend in sponsorships. Lauren herself is trained well and has woven a net out of shreds of car seat material. She lacks a good weapon, having only a length of twisted metal she has crudely sharpened at the end. Helen has specifically made her shank with a particularly long handle with that metal spear in mind. 

Then there is Jackeline-Denise "Jackie" Ford of District 6. She has spent most of the Games hiding, though did manage to kill the 8 boy when cornered. The wrecking yard could have been designed partially with a District 6 Victor in mind. There's clear biome biases some years. The main feed has been favoring her as well. There is a popular underdog each year and Jackie happens to be it for the 89th Hunger Games.

All of the tributes are dehydrated and everyone has long tuned off that particular alert. Unless the Gamemakers want to final showdown to consist of three tributes dry heaving in fetal positions until their bodies shut down, they'll need to get them some water soon. The suspected reason for the retirement of Andrew Fornax, the previous Head Gamemaker, was due to how lackluster the ending of my Games were. Even watching the footage, I'm still not sure how much of the final days actually happened or were hallucinated due to the dehydration and heat. Pricilla will have to be careful right now.

Helen begins to climb back up into her car pile. There is a largely intact car near the top whose backseat she has slept in the past two nights. The relative calm of the area will not last. The feast will be in five minutes.

Grabbing her pack, Helen pokes her head out of the hole where the windshield used to be. From her vantage point, she is able to see most of the Cornucopia where Lauren has remained. The dehydration has been hitting Lauren the hardest and she has grown erratic. She started talking to herself the night before. Despite being in the shade quite frequently, she is likely suffering from heat stroke as well. I have to wonder if she has an underlying condition that will cause her to have seizures as well or if that misfortunes is mine alone.

Helen and Jackie both start to make their separate ways back toward the Cornucopia where Lauren circles. 

I take a sip of coffee and try to use the reflection from the glass mug to look at the other mentors' terminals. With the visors up, the move does nothing but frustrate me. It feels like being in history class again, trying to see other students' answers on the test. I always hated history.

Lauren's head jerks in the direction that Helen approaches from. Helen freezes, pressed against the shell of what had been a truck of some sort, once upon a time. She draws her shank and waits. The metal husk provides concealment and a barricade in case she is spotted. Lauren holds her metal spear out and spins in a slow circle.

"I know you're out there!" Lauren shouts into the empty air. 

She does not know where Helen is and that is what matters.

Helen comes to the same conclusion and moves forward. The spin turns Lauren's back to Helen. Helen dashes forward with a silent snarl. The final three is no time for snappy one liners.

There is nothing left for me to do as a mentor at this point. Except pray. So I pray. _Spirits of glass and wood and woven threads, hold that damn shank together._

Spitting like a wildcat mutt, Helen jumps onto Lauren's back. She takes the other girl to the ground and sinks the shard of glass between her ribs. Lauren bucks her off in a flurry of dust. With a screech, Lauren rises to a crouch.

Helen scrambles back and gets to her feet. Lauren charges and Helen dives to the side and lets her opponent bleed. Both of them form no words, just an endless stream of hissing and spitting and panting. Their pupils are wide with adrenaline.

The timer for the feast continues to count down. Three minutes to go.

Lauren casts her net. Helen dodges with ease. The thrown spear is not dodged. The metal sinks into Helen's left bicep. Alarms blare at me and there is nothing I can do.

Lauren follows her net and spear. She crashes into Helen, which has the fortune of knocking the spear loose. It did not go all the way through Helen's arm. Again Helen sinks her shank into Lauren's side. Lauren throws a punch that skitters across Helen's cheek. The weak blow has little effect. She grabs Helen's left arm and drives her thumb into the spear wound.

Helen screams and I have to take my headset off because it is as if I am next to her and doing nothing.

Sometimes the final fights are almost pretty. Two skilled opponents wearing each other down until one at long last makes a coup de grace. Most of the time they are like this, though. Like the mutts in the arena below the Jabber Jay tearing at each other until one mass of flesh stops moving.

This is not even the final fight. Jackie will be one of the final two. And may very well be able to pick off whoever survives this fight.

To the hum of the consoles, I watch as Helen pulls the knife from her boot. The little blade sinks into Lauren's throat. The struggle should be over but it is not. Lauren still fights on. It is almost as if Lauren is trying to tear the muscle from Helen's bones. How is she still conscious?

The second vial.

Lynn had sent a two vials of something to Lauren right before the feast had been announced. One had been a tetanus shot, like the one I had sent Shimmer. The other was morphling.

Lauren is fighting high on morphling. That explains her erratic behavior and why the pain of being stabbed twice in the side and now in the throat is not effecting her like it should.

I doubt the Gamemakers will let anyone pull something like that again anytime soon, but that is a strategy I need to keep in mind. 

Morphling does not clot blood so Lauren still bleeds, the blood splashing onto Helen. Helen twists the knife and tears it out of Lauren's throat. Both are soaked in blood. Lauren shutters, her ruddy skin going pallid as the blood drains out of her. She collapses on top of Helen and I can hear the cannon shot through the headset lying on my console desk. The console to my left goes dark as there is no more District 4 focus feed.

Two minutes to go until the feast. I don't know if the rest of the Games will even last that long.

Helen wriggles out from under Lauren's body. She struggles to move back, using only her legs to push herself under the shelter of a car husk. Her right hand still clutches the little knife and her left arms hangs limply at her side. 

There is still a lockout in place. There is still nothing I can do. I cannot even think of what to pray for.

The swift appearance of the hovercraft jolts Helen into action. She cuts another strip off the bottom of her shirt, using the knife and her teeth. She wraps the strip above the gaping wound and pulls it tight to create a makeshift tourniquet. Lauren's body is carried away as Helen struggles to stem the flow of blood.

From behind me, I hear the clatter of a headset being dropped onto the console and Lynn murmuring, "I'll go make the call."

Helen digs blindly through her pack with one hand, grabbing a fistful of gauze. She presses it against the wound. Holding it in place with her chin, she grabs another strip of gauze from her pack. She wraps the wound tightly. Her heart rate is increasing and she is beginning to hyperventilate. Signs of going into shock from the blood loss.

The main feed splits. On the right half of the screen is Helen, tying the bandages as tightly as she can. On the left half is Jackie, creeping closer and closer to the Cornucopia. She is crudely armed with a split 2x4 studded with nails, still stained with the blood of the 8 boy. It will be enough to kill Helen given the state she is in.

I do my best to regain my composure and put my headset back on. Someone here needs to have some dignity and Helen is in no shape to have it so I need to have it on her behalf. And it will stop me from crying. Because all I really want to do right now is cry but this is not the time nor the place for such displays of emotion. I must be bronze, for Helen's sake and my own.

The tourniquet in place, Helen shakily rises to her feet. Just one minute to go until the feast. They did not announce special supplies this time. That limits the supplies to only food and drink.

Leaning on the cars for support, Helen positions herself to sprint towards the front of the Cornucopia where the feast table will appear. Jackie is doing the same. Both tributes are just out of the other's line of sight, the space between them taken up by rusting metal husks.

The ground opens up and a table rises. On it sits a single bottle of water. Assholes.

Both tributes sprint towards the table. Helen stumbles, tripping over her own feet. Dehydration and the heat and the blood loss have taken their toll on her. Dropping her 2x4, Jackie grabs the water bottle and opens it, downing half the contents in one desperate gulp. Her back is to Helen.

Helen staggers to her feet and crosses the remaining distance between herself and Jackie. Knife in a white knuckled grip, Helen draws the blade across Jackie's throat. Jackie lurches, dropping the water bottle, and clutches at her bleeding throat. Her cannon fires before her body hits the ground.

Dropping the knife, Helen picks up the water bottle and takes a drink. She finds the nearest camera and smiles into the lens.

"Ladies and gentlemen," booms the voice of Gemus Laurel, "I am pleased to present the Victor of the Eighty-Ninth Hunger Games, Helen Arizonus of District 1!"

That was it. That was really it.

By the spirits of diamond, that was the most gloriously lackluster ending to a Games ever.

I hold back a laugh, because the District 6 mentors are still present, and laughing would be rude. But I am elated. Helen won. Helen won!

No elaborate final fight. Just a solid cut to the throat.

I look over to Dawn. She is staring at the screen in apparent surprise as well.

The hovercraft comes to retrieve Helen. The picture of District 1 composure, each movement carefully controlled to convey grace and strength, Helen sets the now empty water bottle back on the table and grabs onto the ladder. It winches her up into the belly of the hovercraft where the emergency surgeons will be waiting to stitch up her wounds and rehydrate her.

Dawn stands. Her shoulders hunch for a moment, I have no idea as to why, but she swiftly straightens and says, "I'll go wait for her in recovery. You can go enjoy yourself. Mingle with sponsors only if you feel like it, they'll be plenty more time for that later."

"Think I might just go take a nap." I'm still maintain my bronze. Dawn does not need to know I was on the verge of tears earlier. "How long do you think it will be until the recap?"

We walk away from the consoles, leaving the Center's mentor room behind for another year. Dawn looks over to me, and we are eye-to-eye thanks to her heels. "That depends on the severity of the spear wound. Four or five days perhaps."

Tomorrow I'll have to do some mingling. I still get three or four days of time to myself. I can pretend at being the concerned mentor, and I am, and use that as an excuse to be a recluse for a few days.

Dawn goes off toward the elevator that will take her down to the recovery ward. I go to the elevator that will take me to the suite. The enclosed space is comforting. I find myself torn between laughing and crying. With no one around, I let myself do both.

The elevator ride is swift. Kicking my shoes off, I sink my toes into the plush carpet. I head over to my room and throw myself onto my bed. Tears roll down my face and my ribs hurt from laughing.

Helen is alive and our newest Victor.

And selfish as I am, I am so happy that there may be someone new to take my place.


End file.
